Absent Officers and Sherlock's Trousers

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the place to go to find husbands is Brighton.

And so, with a blatant disregard for scandal and the blackening of our good names in civilised society, Emily and I put on our best dresses and made our way to Brighton in search of officers. Without a chaperone. We’re so scandalous.

And also quite seductive. But not very.

Emily tells me that December was the fashionable time to go to Brighton because the lower classes went in summer, which just goes to show that posh people lack all common sense, because Brighton in December looks like this.

Well, isn’t this delightful.

The officers must all have been off fighting the French or hiding just out of sight everywhere we went, because we didn’t manage to find any, which was probably good for our reputations, but does of course mean that we are now old maids and will have to become governesses, or possibly decay creepily and single-shoed in wedding dresses while taking out our bitterness on passing children. But on the plus side, we had a great day trip, complete with a serious but short-lived attempt to go for a walk on a beach composed of small pebbles, which are a completely ridiculous thing for a beach to be made of.

Oh good, I can finally get that copy of Innocent Mistress, Baby of Shame I've been looking for!

 

 

Just as soon as you tell me what they are, I'll be sure to do that.

When we felt like we’d had all the winter beach time we could manage, we discovered to our joy that we could get cheap standby tickets for Spamalot, and so we passed the afternoon in a haze of utter silliness. The show had a tiny cast, but it was very good, and we have no objection to silly Monty Python jokes, in song or out. King Arthur didn’t always sing exactly not flat, but I had to forgive him on the grounds that it’s almost impossible for me not to fall in love with tall men in glasses, especially when they’re in musicals.

 

It's still Christmas in Brighton. It's always Christmas in Brighton.

Back in London, we managed to find some cheap yet edible sushi (a combination which seems surprisingly elusive in this backwards country) and then found we were exhausted, which didn’t bode well for the New Year’s Eve party we’d been invited to. But we gamely got ready, admittedly at the speed of a pair of honey-coated snails on a go-slow, and then tried to make our way to Charing Cross. At 10:30pm. On New Year’s Eve.

Oh, our past selves were so naive.

We waited twenty minutes for a bus which turned out not to be going there after all, but the driver helpfully directed us to another stop two blocks away, where we waited again, only to be told by that driver that catching a bus to Trafalgar Square was about as achievable as world peace, so we clicked our way on our pretty girl shoes back to the underground, where we found EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WHOLE WORLD.

Embankment station was the sort of seething mass of humanity that makes me hang on to my handbag, focus on not having a panic attack, and try not to think about stampedes, because I hear that’s the sort of thing normal people don’t do in crowds. We inched our way up the street with the mob and eventually collapsed gratefully onto Nick and Lizzie’s doorstep, very late, but hoping that people would assume it was because we had been off being cool at another party (and not just eating sushi and transferring epithets at futile bus stops).

The party was the fun kind of party that has both snacks and interesting people, with the added bonus of having a rooftop view of the London Eye. We saw in 2012 by watching the fireworks at midnight with glowsticks and sparklers, hugging everyone at midnight, and making a half-hearted attempt to sing Auld Lang Syne without knowing any of the words. In lieu of getting drunk, I also did a pretty good job of eating most of a jar of Pringles by myself, which is usually a sign of a good party (or just proximity to Pringles).

It still weirds me out that we’re in 2012 and didn’t even have to time travel to get here. Maybe it’s because I grew up in the ‘90s with cassettes, dial-up, and encyclopaedias, but I haven’t quite adjusted to living in the future. But I am grateful it’s not nearly as boring as Arthur C. Clarke and Stanley Kubrick conspired to make me believe.

I haven’t made any New Year’s resolutions other than to stop falling in love with so many imaginary people and to start saying “trousers” (but keep saying “naartjie”), and I already predict failing at one of those things because the first episode of Sherlock season 2 airs tonight, and I’d be giving myself far too much credit to think that the awesomeness of the writing and acting will be enough to distract me from some heavy duty fangirling.

Seriously. (Source)

Although I will do my best to comment on Sherlock’s trousers instead of his pants. So at least that’s one resolution kept.

Tee hee. Sherlock’s trousers.